Page 60 of The Magic We Made

“Do you not want to?” she asks, her eyebrows raised questioningly.

“I—” I have no idea what to say. Because I have no idea what’s going on. I consider myself a fairly smart guy, but this is above my pay grade. “I—”

“It’s abundantly clear we’re attracted to one another,” she says, her gaze on the front of my jeans. Oh, okay. So she noticed. “If two people have physical chemistry and aren’t in a romantic relationship with anyone else who might be hurt by it, I see no reason for them not to see if that chemistry leads somewhere. I have a feeling we might be compatible... at least for sex. You’re not in a relationship, are you?”

I say, now with maybe a little toomuchenthusiasm, “Absolutely not.”

“Me, either. And I’m assuming you’re up-to-date on your screenings for STIs?”

“Got tested at my checkup last month,” I tell her. I try to keep my tone casual, but it’s tough. I might be about to have sex with Dr. Francesca Giovanni. “Clean bill of health. And no partners since.”

“That’s great. Me, too. I don’t see any reason for us to make a big deal out of this. We’re both reasonably young and in good shape, and people who are sexually active are less stressed, and therefore have lower risk of both heart disease and dementia.”

This is a new one for me. I’ve been propositioned before. I like to think I’m pretty sexually adventurous. I was even in a threesome once (in Berlin with two girls who seemed a lot more interested in each other than they were in me, but hey, it was an honor just to be asked).

Yet this is the first time any woman has suggested having sex because it’s part of her heart-healthy lifestyle.

But it makes sense a doctor would feel this way.

“Sounds good to me,” I say, and give a shrug like I get propositioned by my hot doctor neighbors all the time.

“Great,” she says. “Let’s go.”

She turns around and heads toward her house, not looking back to see if I’m following.

But I’m following, all right.

The moon is so high above the trees now that the whole street is cast in a silvery light. The same light causes Frankie’s hair to look almost blue—at least until she climbs the steps to her front porch. Then the yellow light from the lamp she’s left on in her living room turns it back to its normal color.

“Be careful of the cat,” she says to me over her shoulder as she unlocks the front door. “She’s just waiting for a chance to escape back to her life outdoors.”

“Do you even remember who you’re talking to?”

“Oh, right.” Her tone sounds wry. “You’re the cat whisperer. Sorry about that.”

She gets the door open, and the cat does, indeed, make a run for it.

But I’m too fast for cats—especially when I’m motivated like I am now.

“Got her,” I say, easily catching the little creature and tucking her beneath my arm like a football as I follow Frankie inside. The cat, furious, tries to kick me with her hind legs, but that only makes me hold her more tightly. Nice try, kitty. But nothing—not even you—is keeping me from having sex with your owner.

“Thanks.” Frankie goes inside and drops her keys and bag. “Drink? I might have some beer in—”

I close the door behind me, lock it, put down the cat—sorry, sucker—and cross the room to cup Frankie’s face in my hands. I have it on certain authority that girls love it when you do this.

Except Frankie, apparently.

“Uh,” she says. “First let me get out of this dress.”

I instantly release her face. “Sorry,” I say. “Should I...” I start peeling off my jacket while Frankie watches, a bemused look on her face.

“Okay,” she says when I start on the buttons to my shirt. “So... nothing to drink, then?”

“I’m good,” I say, and rip off my shirt.

Frankie was petting the cat. But when I take off my shirt, I seeher fingers still on the cat’s fur, and her eyes widen slightly at the sight of my naked chest.

Hey, she may swim to Center Island and back every day, but I have a personal trainer. Rocco makes sure I never skip a leg day. Or any other day.